“For those who’ve witnessed concrete being mixed and sent down the chute of a concrete truck, you’ll know the satisfaction of seeing it hit its mark, oozing over a grid of rebar as it fills the form. Ahhh. After many weeks of insecurity, worried over a thing that hardens for all eternity, lest it be cock-eyed, this is how I started my day, surprised by the early arrival of a crew that had refused to pre-schedule the date, unable to make contact with the contractors in charge of the blueprints. But really, this is not the crux of my story. What happened later, is much more interesting. Arriving home after a trip to buy a used but pristine computer for the studio, and after an hour of watering shrubs at a client’s backwater location, I clomped past two perfect new slabs, and into my mud room. Walking past an unfamiliar box on the bench, and sniffing somewhat at an unfamiliar and not-so-pleasant aroma, I strode ahead into the house, with my groceries. Half forgetting it, with so much else to do, I finally circled back to revisit the box. Rained on, it was limp, and there was a smell, not my imagination. I checked the label. Of course, the artisanal cat food company, my latest attempt to upgrade my cats’ diet, a sort of “Blue Apron” for the feline class, alleged to be fresh and raw, and without added ingredients. Fair enough. But how quickly my enthusiasm dissipated, as I opened the carefully packed tubes of ground meat, no longer cooled by a non-existent block of dry ice, warm to the touch, in fact ... rotten and now my responsibility to dispose of, according to my standards of decency. Did I mention how the consistency of “Ground Bird” in such a state, resembles the slurry of just mixed concrete? Not wanting to curse my local dump with a disgusting bag of decomposing avian remains, I decided in my brilliance to open each plastic sleeve and deftly ply what was soft, into a paper grocery bag. Thinking, again in my brilliance, that this would all prove to be biodegradable when thrown into the woods. I can’t do justice to what happened next. Having lost my hot water thanks for the plumber who somehow disconnected it last week while he was priming cold water up to my yurt, I put a kettle on, to provide the manual version of hot water necessary to remove unsavory greases, from leftover plastics wraps and from, of course, my poor abused sink. I continued, without breathing, for I am a vegetarian now going on 40 years, to squeeze defrosted bird parts into my trusty bag. Knowing, faintly, that I was working against the clock. For how long will it take wet remains to penetrate the flimsy bottom of the common “paper-or-plastic” pulp heavy bag? I picked up my speed, as best I could, feeling a bit queasy, a bit oxygen deprived and increasingly like a character in one of Dante’s infamous infernos. As the bag split and broke, positioned as it was on top of my new Furman Power Conditioner, still in the box, which I’d been using as a doorstop quite winningly for a month or more, I felt an odd, sinking feeling. That type of feeling you get to feel, when the absurdity of what you’re doing, on a logarithmic graph, is taking its sharpest, most pronounced turn for the worse. The bag as it split, began to spill “Ground Bird” a.k.a. poultry sludge, down the Furman Power Conditioner, still in the box, and onto the tile floor. Did I say that my cat was trying also, with every trick she knew, to get into that bag? I had to flick water at her, and finally throw her out the door, without ceremony. Somehow I was smart enough, in the end, to employ the use of a cardboard box, a wad of “Seven Days” to catch the overflow, and paper towels - God Bless Paper Towels, a very sinful waste of resources that is so very handy when things go sideways like this. All right, enough of my tale of woe. Like a “Car 64 Where Are You” magnet, my cell phone, normally silent, kept on ringing while I was experiencing the worst of this. The final flinging of the box into the deep undergrowth and ravine next to my garage, was a Pyrrhic Victory, I can say without regrets. Still without hot water, and the kettle having boiled over, snuffing out the gas so that only spewing fumes remained, causing me to open all my doors, while pondering the shortcomings of my sponge mop, yet, I returned to optimism. In the post-thunderstorm quiet, saying goodnight to puffy clouds, marauding clouds, rain soaked dirt roads, a few mistakes set in stone but not irrevocably; I’m happy to be doing what no one really wanted me to attempt. I’ll keep doing that, as long as I am able.”
